In Heaven there ain’t no beer

That’s why we drink it here

And when we’re gone from here

All our friends will be drinking all the beer

In their formative years, children learn all types of cute little songs and finger plays.  The one song that stands out in my mind from those times of yours truly is quoted above.  Understandably so, the song didn’t plant itself in my skull by traditional means at school, church, or at home.

Instead, it came from the periodic visits made by my family to Shakeys.

For those of you not in the know, Shakeys  is a pizza parlor.  Back in the 70′s, it was one of two pizza joints that I can remember which served the needs of the small Wyoming town in which I grew up.  Shakeys was the place to be on any given night, especially if that night followed a pay day.

Whereas it’s commonplace today, the mere presence of Pac-Man, Space Invaders, and Dig Dug in the pizza parlor would have presented quite an ugly anachronism.  Instead, there was a pinball machine and a window where kids could watch pizza being made.

At this particular establishment, a piano player who went by the name of “Mac” dressed up in the stereotypical vaudevillian garb would sit at the piano on the small stage and lead  everyone in the restaurant in a sing along.  The lyrics to all of the songs were projected onto to the wall by a slide projector.  The one song I remember from those times is posted above.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with what a slide projector is, consider it the beta version of a media projector.

Children were always invited to stand at the piano with Mac, under the condition that they didn’t touch the piano.  After all, the standard rule at the time was that “Polacks see with their hands.” (Here in Texas, we have Aggies.  In Wyoming, we had Polacks or South Dakotans.)

I can remember having all different types of get-togethers there.  Dad threw a holiday party (back in those days it was called a “Christmas party”) for his employees there one year.  That was the first time I ever saw someone order pineapple on a pizza.  Given the small town mentality we all had there, the culprit who ordered such a topping was subsequently suspected of practicing pagan rituals.

Sadly, time moved on.

The need for the atmosphere provided by Mac and his piano went by the wayside when arcade games were installed as a precursor to the information age.

It was during that time that I found myself doing some community service work through the youth group at my church.  My specific duties were to visit Mac once a week to help him out with his housework, grocery shopping, and negotiations with the Rubik’s Cube.

Years later as I entered high school, the local Shakeys went out of business due to it’s inability to compete with other national chains which had moved into town and offered the ability to deliver.

In turn, the building it inhabited became a pretty darn good liquor store which never carded me when they should have.  Even in those days when my buddies and I would darken the door, I couldn’t help but singing that song I had learned at that spot so many years ago.

As much as I would love to compose an eloquent piece on a series of pictures seen  on the Facebook profile page belonging to a manager of one of the TharpSter satellite offices, I find myself at a loss for words.

I know, I’m just as shocked as you are.

Naturally, it would seem that such an array of pictures littered with various levels of the cute and cuddly were placed there by a tender young soul whose life is resplendent with hope for a bright and shiny tomorrow filled with unicorns, rainbows, and uplifting melodies.

As much as we would like to believe that the dream is still alive, please don’t be disheartened as I deliver the sad news.

It’s not.

Harken back my dear and beloved reader to the film Citizen Kane.

Rosebud.

‘Nuff said.

If I have to explain the meaning of that movie or just what the hell Rosebud stood for in that Orson Wells magnum opus then my work here in your life is much more needed than what you think it is.  In addition, please take note of the fact that I italicized the bitchin’ Latin phrase in the previous sentence.  Latin phrases don’t achieve the level of “bitchin’” until they get italicized, especially by me.  That’s just the way it is.

Now that we’ve gotten that non sequitur comment out of the way, let’s get back to why we’re here.

At least three of the pictures on that particular Facebook profile represent a lost sled for the enigmatic social networker who uploaded them.  I don’t know what’s with the dog (prone to getting it’s ears dyed pink) and the purple Q-Bert looking thing.  I’m thinking butterscotch vodka may be involved though.

What I do know that you may not have figured out yet, is that the pictures don’t belong to the TharpSter equivalent to any of the six kids from the Brady Bunch.

Nope.

The owner of those photos is an unattached male in his forties who longs for escape from a life of normalcy in favor of providing high quality massages to clientele with just enough disposable income to take cruises in the oceans and seas all over the world.

Right now, he’s probably sitting in a sports bar with friends getting a major piece of wood as he watches the so-called “America’s Team” get their collective asses handed to them by a division rival on NBC’s Sunday Night Football.

Pretty typical.  Don’t you think?